


the staircase of his spine

by Fanless



Category: All New X-Factor, Avengers (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Dramedy, Dubious Morality, F/M, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Pietro's REAL fucked up, Pietro's fucked up, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Secret Relationship, there's actual Remy and then there's clone Remy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5727250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanless/pseuds/Fanless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietro's got an unholy fear of rejection and being honest about his feelings, a couple of decades of repression and self-castigation on his back and a humiliating, paralyzing crush on a certain Cajun teammate. His performance is suffering and people are beginning to notice-- but naturally, he'd rather die (again) than admit he's got such a big secret to hide. So when a wild opportunity and some expensive cloning technology presents itself, Pietro does something very impulsive and very, very stupid. And suddenly, he's got twice the Remy to worry about. </p><p>At least this one he can control... right?</p><p>Title paraphrased from Gabriel Bruce's "Perfect Weather".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm going out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro has intrusive thoughts and, left to his own devices, makes a couple of questionable choices.

For Pietro Maximoff, the morning ritual of washing the sleep from his eyes and combing his hair (sometimes), brushing and dressing, is no more than an afterthought most of the time. He can clean up in what would be a blink for most people, so he does. Why wouldn’t he?

This morning, though, he lingers a little longer than he’s accustomed to doing. The dream happened again, just before he woke up, and he’s not ready to be among people just yet.

_Those hands on his chest and hips, steady and graceful yet rough. Dark stubble in dim light. Lips pressed to his neck._

His eyes in the mirror look tired: more grey than blue, even in the bright light from above the sink.

_A low voice, murmuring soft foreign praises and prayers._

Pietro rubs his face and watches the tanned skin stretch and settle back into place as he pulls a grimace at himself. Only five minutes awake and he’s ready to crawl back into bed. Hardly normal for him. Though recently nothing has seemed normal at all.

“Pietro?” Lorna’s voice outside the door startles him. “What did you do, fall in? It’s been what, thirty seconds?”

“I’m sick. Tell everyone I’ve taken to my bed with the vapors.” It’s not completely a joke. He feels like vapor—floaty and unsteady on his feet. That stupid dream. It’d been so vivid, his legs felt rubbery.

“Sure.” She sounds unconvinced. “Well, vapor on to the usual place as soon as you’re done, okay? We’re just on security detail today, but there’s still the meeting before…”

Pietro tunes out his sister’s voice and looks to the mirror again, heaving a sigh. For some reason his face surprises him when it peers back unaccompanied.

 

* * *

   
The meeting goes as well as they ever do. Pietro listens but fidgets. Warlock smiles at everyone, as if his bright golden mouth ever does anything else most of the time, and Remy cracks a few jokes. To his horror, Pietro finds his own eyes lingering on the thief longer than necessary again. Why the hell is he staring? Hadn’t he told himself he’d stop doing that, especially when those horrible, embarrassing dreams started up? Even if the fool looks upsettingly handsome today, all rumpled and smiley as if he’d just rolled out of bed— _oh for heaven’s sake, get a grip!_

They’re heading out. Pietro jumps violently when a hand lands on his shoulder and flinches again, involuntarily, when he realizes it’s Remy’s.

“Feelin’ okay, Pietro?” The Cajun’s brow is cocked. “You lookin’ a little glassy-eyed this mornin’ just now. You need to stay back?”

“I was just thinking.” Pietro puts a suitably stern look on his face to cover the discombobulation. “You ought to try it sometime, Gambit.”

Remy snorts and reaches to muss the speedster’s wavy hair. Pietro hisses, but despite his instinctual response doesn’t move away from the gloved fingers. It’s rare he has any physical contact these days besides people trying to punch him and Remy’s hand is warm.

_Those hands on his chest and hips, steady and graceful yet rough…_

Pietro huffs out loud and bats his teammate away. Tickled by the reaction, Remy smirks and makes as if to turn away; Pietro’s completely taken off guard when the other’s unaccounted-for hand swats his ass with a loud smack.

“Oh my god!” Doug squawks, then dissolves into laughter more appropriate to the giddy teenager he still resembles on occasion. “I’m sorry! Your face is just beet red right now, oh jeez!” Lorna’s trying to be a dignified team leader, but she’s losing the giggle war too. Remy barks with unbridled amusement, hands on his knees. Pietro curses them all out swiftly in Transian, fans his burning face, and waits until he's sure everyone's turned away and his reflection isn't visible in any shiny surfaces to bite his lip.

 

* * *

  
 He really shouldn’t, he supposes back in his bedroom at the end of the day, especially with the troubles not so far behind. But damn it, he’s been good for a while. A glass won’t hurt. He gestures with the hand not pouring rum and the music system’s motion sensor wakes the first track on the list. Lorna’s kind of music. Expansive, orchestral, with a hint of malaise and smoky female vocals.

 

 _I hope that you see me_  
_Cause I'm staring at you_  
_But when you look over_  
_You look right through_

 

Pietro grunts irritably to himself, leaning back and taking a shot. This is hitting a little close to home.

 

 _Then you lean and_  
_kiss her on the head_  
_And I never felt so alive, and so…_  
_dead._

 

Soon Pietro’s glass is empty. The alcohol burns like a torn muscle even after it passes his throat, but there’s more. There’s plenty more.

 

_I’m going out,  
I'm gonna drink myself to death_

 

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. The song cycling over and over on itself fades into a pleasurable white noise as the contents of the now-empty bottle finally take effect. He needs the sound, can’t have silence or the walls in his head fall down. Can’t be alone with nothing to distract himself. Alone, could do anything… Anything. He could start on another bottle. He thinks he will.

What would he do if Remy was there with him?

The thought shocks through his head like a bolt of silent lightning, unexpected and breathtaking.

_Imagine those hands again, warm, hungry. Imagine them working on your skin. Imagine his skin, his rough lips. Fuck. How long has it been since anyone touched you that way, Pietro? How long since you’ve felt anything like that, so hot and heavy that even through the muted senses of a dream you shuddered and tautened?_

The empty glass bounces slightly on the plush carpet. His hands are shaking.

Damn it, damn him, damn.

 

_And in the crowd  
I see you with someone else_

 

A moment to check the doors are locked and the windows opaque, then again for safety’s sake. Pietro cocoons himself in the blanket and takes an edgy breath as his hands edge down the elastic band of his joggers. He doesn’t do this often. Even through the fog of intoxication he feels a pang of embarrassment, shame. How would it look if Lorna or Doug or, God forbid, Remy walked in and found him? What would Wanda say?

_It doesn’t matter, does it, because they’d think the whole thing was stupid if they knew about any of it, let alone catch me pleasuring myself. Of course they would. Because it’s stupid._

Pietro raises his hips and inwardly winces when the very first stroke kicks a whimper out of his treacherous lungs. _Stupid_.

His fingers dance over his flesh at their own hungry speed, leaving no more time for introspection.

 _Stop thinking. His hands, his breath. He’s whispering to you in that muddy accent, telling you you’re so beautiful,_ mon beau lapin, _and_ _then_ _he stops whispering and starts moaning and then_

(Pietro’s breath is burning behind his collarbone)

_he’s heavy on you, he’s panting your name and_

(his back arched off the bed)

_his mouth on yours, his heart pounding like a jackrabbit’s feet for you_

(his free hand in his hair knotting hard)

— _for you, screaming your name, oh god and then harder and then faster and then—_ “Oh _god_ —”

 

_I brace myself  
Cause I know it's going to hurt_

 

Shaking, Pietro flickers to the bathroom to rinse his fingers, then to the closet. He needs a run.

 

_But I like to think at least things can't get any worse…_

 

His jacket is on, sleeves pulled down tight, hood over his head despite the knowledge that no one will see him pass.

  
_  
I'm going out…_

 

Pietro leaves the speakers on, repeat running, as he heads out the door, and the last thing he hears before he shoots down the hallway is the honeysuckle trickle of that damnable torch song.

 

_I'm going out…_

 

* * *

   
_This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong._

The words keep thumping inside his lungs like fists on a locked door, making his bones hum with anxiety, but he keeps repeating his own mantra, praying that with enough repetition it'll cover up the fear.

_I need this. No one will find out. It'll be better this way..._

Back in his room, Pietro looks at the key card in his hand before pocketing it. Innocuous, inoffensive, stolen.

_Whoever I’m going to answer to for this, forgive me._


	2. Don't stand so close to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of significance in this one, haha. I just had to get something up, but I'll be working on the next chapter this week for real this time :P

The key card is still there when Pietro checks next, nestled in the top drawer of his dresser between the socks and pairs of underwear like the secret it is. He keeps checking, as if maybe it’ll have gone away since then, despite well knowing better.

  
Guilt, Pietro finds, is a powerful natural drug. It keeps his nerves buzzing like the lines of static on an old television monitor, stretched even tighter than usual.

He flitters through the tasks of the day, avoiding his teammates as much as he can. That in itself, he knows, isn’t likely to arouse suspicion; he’s practically expected to be short in reply and attention span, and Lorna knows his personal eccentricities well. She doesn’t hassle him about the abstracted attitudes, the fidgeting or the hyperfocusing for the most part.

  
Of course, Remy is a different story. Pietro doesn’t know if it’s one of those Southern things, this complete lack of understanding re: personal boundaries, or if he’s really just terrible at reading the air. He’s usually taking up space in some way that annoys Pietro, but today it just feels like a personal attack. Each attempt at avoiding him only sows the seeds of future interruptions. “You need help with that?” when Pietro swerves to avoid his mewling fur-demons playing in the common room and drops a sheaf of files. “What you want? I can get it for ya” when he finds himself staring a little too long and climbs up on the nearest shelf, pretending to reach for something just out of range.

  
“Lookin’ good,” he says, finally, when Pietro is off guard for once in his life and taking a moment to admire a new jacket in the mirror. It’s another Serval piece, the prowling wild cat emblazoned boldly up and down his sleeves, and it lays on top of his lean torso almost lazily. He likes it.

  
Pietro jumps, but begrudgingly acknowledges. "Thank you, Gambit."

  
"When you gonna start callin' me Remy, Speedy?" A flash of white teeth under those disconcerting dark eyes as Remy chuckles. "We known each other a while now, y'know?"

  
"It's much safer to use codenames whenever possible, I feel."

Pietro feels his treacherous ears warm up. He hates this fluttery, flustered feeling. Hates that it wells up whenever this rough, smoke-scented man smiles at him. Hates that he's been doing this for so long and that try as he might, he can't seem to keep it put away the way he's always been able to repress the feelings he doesn't like.

And he hates that he can't seem to ever make himself face up to it.

  
Remy is looking at him in the oddest way now, and for a moment Pietro imagines he's been thinking out loud. But he just shakes his head and laughs a little, and reaches for Pietro's face.

  
"Wh-- what are you doing?!" Pietro snaps, flinching.

  
"Calm down, Pietro." Remy snorts, running the pad of his thumb down one side of his face. "Jus' got somethin' on ya face. I'm helpin'."

  
"W-well, stop helping!" His skin is softer than expected, just rough enough to make his skin prickle in response. Pietro has always been sensitive to touch, especially the unexpected variety, and he wants to crawl out of the top of his head and swan dive away. "I'm not a child, you know. If you'd just tell me I'd get it on my own."

  
Remy smirks and pets his face, clearly amused at his consternation. "You're a funny guy, Quicksilver. Took a while, but ya grown on me."

  
Before he thinks, Pietro mutters, "So have you."

  
Remy raises his brows, grin widening. "Oui? Now if that ain't a surprise. Thought ya didn't like much of anyone."

  
Shit, damn. Pietro knows he's starting to blush, but he backpedals and draws himself up haughtily all the same. "I didn't say I liked you, I said you grew on me. Mold does the same thing."

  
Remy laughs and glides away, flicking his fingers. Pietro sniffs at him. Crisis mostly averted.


End file.
